


Something More

by fragile_thoughts



Series: Chamomile [1]
Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Dubious Consent, F/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragile_thoughts/pseuds/fragile_thoughts
Summary: When he touches her face, he breathily murmurs her name.He doesn't sound like a child anymore.





	Something More

**Author's Note:**

> I needed some new fics with just the canon characters so I decided to write one myself. I don't have a beta or anything, so excuse the mistakes that I might've made.  
> Enjoy <3

'It's just a kiss,' she tries to convince herself as his grip on her wrist tightens. 'Just a kiss, and not even a real one at that. I'm just touching my lips to porcelain.'

Greta's heart thunders in her chest as she turns back around to face Brahms, and his gaze completes the image his mask tries to portray. The wideness of his eyes suggest a certain innocence, a childishness he tries to convince her he still has, but she sees the reality beyond that in his powerful grip and the beard that subtly curls up from the shadow of his jaw.

She reluctantly steps back towards him and he follows her motions, lying his head back down on the pillow and looking at her with a demanding sort of anticipation. Slowly, hesitantly, she leans down, and even when she feels his strong hands come up to grip her shoulders, holding her effectively in place as he pulls her closer, she fulfills his request by pressing her lips lightly to the corner of his mouth. His hands immediately tighten and he follows her when she tries to jerk away, his porcelain mouth desperately crushing into hers in a twistedly passionate attempt to deepen their embrace.

'The screwdriver,' she thinks, but as if Brahms has read her mind, his hands slide down to grip her elbows, forcefully pulling her to rest on top of him.

Greta is not prepared.

His sweat transfers onto her hoodie and her hands tremble as they brush up against his neck. She breathes in his scent and is viscerally reminded that she is not dealing with the little boy she had vowed to protect and care for. To not only see but actually touch him, her trapped elbows resting on his chest and fingers touching his skin, effectively muddles her senses in a way she's ashamed to admit to herself.

Her mind panics. It must show on her face because she sees his eyes crinkle smilingly.

It shouldn't surprise her how quick he is, but she gasps all the same when she feels one of his arms snake around her waist and the weight of the screwdriver slide from her back pocket.

When he flips her onto her back and presses her into the small bed, the breath that she has left is knocked out of her.

Brahms restrains her with a hand holding both of her wrists over her head as he examines the last resort that, deep down, she had hoped she wouldn't have to use. He turns the screwdriver over in his large hand and a childish snicker leaves his mouth as he dangles it in front of her, seemingly taunting her for her disobedience. He puts on a front of only being smugly amused at her hastily concocted idea even though she can see the hurt in his eyes, something that she immediately chooses to ignore.

It was a pitiful plan that she only half-heartedly thought about carrying out. A mere screwdriver shoved into her back pocket is nothing like the elaborate prank he's been playing on her since she stepped inside this house.

It's humiliating, everything has been up to this point, and Greta grits her teeth as she feels her face heat shamefully.

It’s sick, all of it, and in a moment of irrationality, she snaps.

“ _Stop it!_ "

He starts, and she gets a mild jolt of satisfaction, a sense of power over him, just like she had when she decided to come back, to face him for the sake of someone who had become special to her.

"Just stop it, all right? You’re _not_ a child anymore, stop acting like one!"

He only looks at her for a second before his head tilts and his eyes narrow.

It’s as if her words released him from something, his demeanor shifting like an actor dropping out of character after a long and grueling performance.

Goosebumps prick her skin.

As he drops the screwdriver to the floor to lean fully over her, she realizes that he's taken her words and twisted them in his head in a way she didn't want him to.

When he touches her face, he breathily murmurs her name.

He doesn't sound like a child anymore.

"Brahms," she gasps suddenly, "No. Don't."

His hand slips to her neck and he brushes his fingers against it, causing her to shiver.

“Why?" he asks.

"I'm very angry at you right now. Do you understand?"

She tries to keep her voice steady and fails. His resulting chuckle is deep and nothing like the shell of a little boy's laughter that he had mimicked a few moments ago.

Brahms slips his hand under her shirt, and she can feel the rough pads of his fingers catch on her brassiere. Greta's breath hitches and his eyes meet hers again, his excitement clear and his breathing becoming more frenzied.

“Why?"

He's frightening her, asking nothing but a single, frustrating question. He knows what he's doing and he's clearly enjoying himself.

“ _Why_ , Greta?"

She stares at him, her mouth working, trying to find the right words, _any words at all_ , but they escape her. She’s dazed by the unexpected turns her evening has taken, and it’s no surprise that he uses her current state to his advantage.

Pressing himself close to her, she feels one of his rough hands cover her eyes while the other one releases her wrists from its death grip. There’s a pause before she feels his breath on her jaw as he whispers into her ear with his unmistakably deep tone, causing her to shudder involuntarily.

“ _Kiss_.”

Greta swallows. It takes a good moment or two in the darkness that Brahms has created for her before she realizes that he’s waiting. The goodnight kiss has always been something she initiated. It’s the one thing he won’t take from her without asking, it seems.

She hesitates, and only when his weight becomes crushing does she raise her head slightly to silently give him permission.

This time when their lips touch, his are not porcelain.

The way he quickly descends on her makes her gasp. His warm and slightly clammy flesh is shocking to her senses, as he presses harder into her, desperate, his body following suit. He doesn't know exactly what he’s doing, of course he doesn't, but she’s left breathless all the same.

He wants for her in a wild and uncontrollable sense, and she can feel it through him. He’s trying to reign himself in just a bit, but when he pushes his tongue inside her mouth to mingle with hers, it’s as if she can actually hear the snap when he loses all semblance of control.

He surges forward, pushing her deeply into the bed, and she presses her hands against his heaving chest, trying to put a little space between them at first, but eventually finds herself clinging to him, like he’s a lone rock in a river as she tries not to drown. Her name is whispered between sloppy kisses, a hand slips to her curves, and when she gasps, she can feel his smile against her mouth, his skin twisted and strange.

When their hips grind together, it shocks them both, and she lets out a strangled squeak that his tongue laps up, the rumble coming from him sounding like a growl.

She feels lightheaded and foggy, and when she lets out another noise, a distressed and breathy whimper, his movements stutter in hesitation for a second.

The emotions of the day and of this moment are warring inside her, and she doesn't know what to do.

She feels the tears that have been glistening in her eyes all evening begin to fall in earnest down her cheeks to pool into her ears.

He stops.

There’s a hiss as he breathes in through his teeth.

Then he raises himself from her, and there’s a moment before he lifts his hand away from her eyes. His face is covered with porcelain again as he stares at her, brushing fingers over the wetness of her cheeks.

“Greta… pretty Greta, don't cry.”

This only makes the tears fall faster and harder, and she turns away.

There’s silence for a moment.

She hears him exhale heavily before the bed moves and he lies down next to her, his arms curling protectively around her as he draws her to him. When her cheek presses against his chest, she has to bite her lip to keep from making a noise as her tears instantly soak into the ribbing on his shirt. He rubs her back as if she were a child, attempting to calm her down in likely the only way he knows how.

“Don’t cry,” he repeats, and she feels his shaky exhale on her hair as he holds her a little closer. His hand slows to a soothing ripple and her body relaxes, boneless in his arms as she continues to shudder a little. Her eyes flutter a bit as she struggles with an onslaught of exhaustion and tries to stay awake. 

It surprises Greta how seemingly tender Brahms can be when he wants, and she wonders how things would have changed if his compassion was a more present part of his character.

His hands move up to her hair, which he seems unnaturally obsessed with, and he begins finger combing it, the nose of his mask pressing into it. She allows him this, just this once.

“Thank you,” she whispers shakily, and she’s not sure if she’s expressing her gratitude to him because he stopped or because he’s providing much needed comfort. “… I’m tired. I’m just so tired…”

The covers are over both of them in a moment, straightened out from their scuffle earlier and warm against her body.

She fidgets awkwardly, and a few moments pass before she works up the courage to whisper, “Brahms, maybe I better go to my own—“

“No.” He cuts her off and pats the covers over her, slipping a hand to her back so he can pull her towards himself, tangling their legs together. “Sleep.”

She tenses up, and the way his hand tightens on her, he can feel it too. His breathing stirs her hair at the top of her head for a moment, then he rasps, “I’ll be… _good_.”

Greta lifts her chin wearily from his chest, turning her head so she can look up at him, meeting his gaze with her own.

“… You haven’t been very good tonight.”

He blinks at her, seemingly affronted, as if all that happened earlier in the evening had nothing to do with him. She holds her stare a moment more before glancing away, sighing and questioning his morals for the umpteenth time that night.

“Well, if you can’t promise, then—"

Brahms huffs, but his hands are gentle as he presses her head to his chest, smoothing an arm down her back to wrap tightly around her waist.

“I _promise_.”

His fingers twitch, then press into her hips, and she can feel his clawing desperation to control himself as she listens to his racing heart and the way his teeth grind behind his mask. He’s doing this for her, and she won’t let that sentiment go to waste. She’ll trust him for now. She’s too tired to do anything else, anyway. Greta sighs and murmurs a reply she believes is intelligible, but there’s no response except for a breathy chuckle, so she thinks it came out wrongly.

It only takes a moment before she closes her tear-reddened eyes and falls asleep listening to his heartbeat.


End file.
